“Who the f–k is John?”

So yesterday my girlfriend surprised me with a couples massage at a trendy little spa in Manhattan. After 8 am Mass listening to the Passion of Christ (Palm Sunday) it was good to de-stress.

So we get the spa and the first thing the woman at the desk says is, “OK, so this is a couples’ massage for Lisa and John.”

Who?

Now I have a game I like to play with my girlfriend. It’s called, how can I embarrass her? She claims to not get embarrassed easily, but I learned on a trip to Puerto Rico that there is one way to do so. When someone would ask us if we were married I would tell them, “Well, I am, but she’s not.” Because resorts and spas are often places where wealthy shady people go the staff would adopt this, “Hey whatever you do with your life is cool” attitude, which would embarrass my girlfriend when she would protest that I was joking.

So back to the spa. I pretended to flip out a little bit, but then reassured them that I was joking.

So we go to the changing rooms where I get down to my boxer briefs and have to put on a robe and a pair of Crocs. For those of you that don’t know what crocs are – they are these bright colored rubber shoes that look like strainers. The staff member brought out a pair of 14s for me so I thanked her for finding my size, but asked if they came in my sexual orientation. The fact that I have seen many women and some men wearing these things around the city reminds me of the Emperor’s New Clothes. If something is said to be cool or hip or fashionable, even for a day, someone will wear them no matter how dumb they look.

So then our masseuses arrived. Fortunately my girlfriend requested a female for me because I would not have wanted the awkward exchange of “Hey, not that I mind another man working my body out in a strictly professional manner, but I would kind of prefer a woman.”

My girlfriend had a man and I quickly made sure he was gay (he was wearing crocs), but I was not 100% positive.

So the massage began and it felt good, but hearing the oils being rubbed vigorously into my girlfriend’s body in the bed next to me made me want to look up and say, “You having fun over there Alex (that was his name).”

So then there was the turn over, which is usually the point where the masseuse says, “I will give you a minute, because they don’t want a Derek Zoolander experience on the massage table.” But interestingly enough any stimulating feelings that arise from a good massage are nullified by the sound of “Alex” smacking, flipping and rubbing it down (Oh no! – Bell Biv Devoe) on your girlfriend on the next table. So I flipped over without hesitation.

All in all, a very good experience. Except for the crocs.